


Fractures to itches

by winterysomnium



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/M, M/M, mentions of injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 12:40:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3209564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterysomnium/pseuds/winterysomnium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m good. Getting a bit used to this.” he lifts his left arm, the cast a bulk of fiberglass, bent along his elbow and stretching towards his shoulder, framing his knuckles like an oversized hoodie, like a badly cut glove.</p>
<p>(His skin itches underneath.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fractures to itches

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an anon, who prompted "I will show up on your front porch in a wet t-shirt and some mac and cheese, high school AU". Thank you for the prompt!

“Are you doing fine?” his Dad asks and Tim starts, the halfhearted doodle on his textbook turns smudgy, watery under the pressure of own his hand and he looks away from the window, Gotham’s rain season the soundtrack of his thoughts, thoughts heavy from the night’s past, from the hours of being bathed in hospital scents and he rubs his feet together, suddenly feeling their cold toes.

“I’m good. Getting a bit used to this.” he lifts his left arm, the cast a bulk of fiberglass, bent along his elbow and stretching towards his shoulder, framing his knuckles like an oversized hoodie, like a badly cut glove.

(His skin itches underneath.)

 

 Jack smiles at him, reassuring, _relieved_ , and somehow, it makes Tim feel safer.

(It makes him feel brave.)

“That’s good,” Jack says and watches Tim put his arm down again, the prickle of yesterday’s fear vanishing along with Tim’s answer, with his relaxed, lazy posture. ( _He’s fine._ ) “If you need anything, we’re downstairs,” he adds, shifts his weight inside the frame of the door, from one set of bones to another, his muscles ache. “Dana lent a movie, if you’re interested,” he says but Tim declines, as expected, points to his books piling next to his elbow, spilling over a third of his desk.

“Thanks, but I’d rather try to finish my homework. You guys have fun,” he answers and Jack leaves, closes the door, softly, as if the thunder could hurt Tim’s bones and Tim rubs at the picture he drew until it’s nothing but a whisper of graphite, until it’s nothing but a memory of itself, fishes out his phone, knows there’s nothing new for him to find but he looks at the screen anyway, thoughtfully pauses above the _whatsapp_ logo.

(He could just text him himself, couldn’t he?)

He _could_ but finding words when he’s been: pulled to breathless nooks, talked to in sounds without echoes, _kissed_ , kissed really _good_ — it’s like someone stole every thought, right from his mouth. (Or (more precisely) right from the pads of his fingers.)

So he’s — idly toying with buttons, waiting for something to sound right, to sound proper written out and sent and maybe he should just auto text something and wait for Kon to send him the _?_ first and then, next  _did they give you any weird drugs or something man?_ but his fingers won’t move, his forearm itches, he misses Kon’s ridiculous mouth and that’s when: something gets thrown against his window.

He sits up and another something hits the glass, creates a dull vibration, sounds like every romance movie’s wooing sequence except — it’s heavier, leaves a bit of a stain, the impact shakes the whole of the glass.

Tim leans over his desk with a smile, knowing, opens the window, rests his bare forearm on the sill and hopes his laugh doesn’t tell too much, doesn’t let all the secrets out, as small, cool shards of the rain touch his skin, stick to his clothes.

“Pines, really?” he asks the boy underneath, the boy who’s getting soaked in the watery, windy storm, whose hoodie is wrapped around something in his arms and Kon grins, shrugs as he shields whatever is nestled in the fabric, says: “I didn’t want to break your window too, is all.” and yeah, that’s — understandable.

Considering Kon was the one who broke Tim’s arm, yesterday.

“Can I come in? I brought you something. As an apology,” Kon says; gestures to the bundle and doesn’t show how much the guilt in him weights, how much he can never make his _sorry_ ’s weight enough to balance it all out, how genuinely _unhappy_ he is with how the next twenty minutes after they made out went.

(He’s not happy with them at all.)

 “Sure. But you could have just rung the bell, y’know?” Tim answers, watches in mild disbelief as Kon actually starts to _climb_ his house, one handed, grasping at slippery sills and Tim thinks: _great_. If he breaks a leg they will match.

“You’re ridiculous. I hope you know,” Tim says as Kon hands him the hoodie bundle and pulls himself into the fading warmth of Tim’s room, smiles as Tim realizes that what he’s holding is soaked in heat, too and Tim repeats, softer: “Really though. We have a door.” and Kon is — he lifts the hem of his t-shirt, dries his face with the damp fabric, Tim sighs and hands him back the apology packet to find him a towel, closes the wet, cold air outside.

“I know you have a door,” Kon speaks up, sounds — a touch _unsure_ , hushed in his effortless confidence, spirit as damp as all of his clothes. “But you also have a Dad and he gave me this _fierce_ stink eye yesterday. He’s _scary_ , man,” he says and Tim looks at him, thinks no amount of scary stink eyes should have made Kon an amateur stunt artist but then again, Kon is prone to dumb ideas, isn’t he?

(He kinda is.)

“He’s a Dad. Guess he hit protective mode.” Tim shrugs, sits on his bed, leans on his palm. “I told him it was an accident. And _Dana_ likes you.”

“Doesn’t mean your Dad doesn’t want to fill a restraint order.” Kon sighs, adjust the weight in his arms. “Speaking of accidents, how is your arm? Does it hurt?” he asks, glances at the cast, then at Tim’s face and the need to punch himself intensifies, doesn’t lessen when Tim shakes his head.

“No, but it itches a lot,” he answers and Kon carefully sits next to his knees, resists slumping against Tim’s shoulder, resists holding him until his bones grow and mend, again.

“I’m sorry about that. About _all_ of this. I really am, you know that Tim, right?” he asks, in a low tone, sad and guilty and he looks up to Tim’s gaze and Tim sighs, again, a bit fonder, less tired, reaches out to bump against Kon’s arm.

“And _I_ told you I’m _fine_ and that I _know_ and that I don’t blame you. No matter how my Dad looks at you,” he answers, rests his head against Kon’s shoulder and Kon touches Tim’s thigh, rubs at the skin underneath the rough fabric, watches the movement of his hand.

“I still feel _awful_. That’s kinda why I came today. Well, okay, not only for _that_ because I also wanted to see you but — I’ve brought you something,” he says, unwraps the bulk of warm weight placed on his lap, reveals a pot heavy with pasta, hidden underneath a lid cloudy with heat and as he takes the lid off, Tim recognizes what exactly Kon has brought.  

“Is that Mac and cheese?” he asks anyway, appreciatively, leans over the pot to take in the scent, to confirm his guess. “Did Ma make it?” he asks and Kon nods, pushes the pot closer to Tim’s lap.

“Yeah. I told her I needed something for someone special and she said ‘tell Tim I said hi’. She so knows,” he answers, with half a sigh, fishes something out of the hoodie’s front pocket, hands it to Tim. “Here’s a fork, too.”

“Huh. Full service, isn’t it.” Tim laughs and slowly tries a bite, gives Kon a thumbs up as he eats another forkful of the cheese filled pasta, nudges Kon’s leg with his hand.

“Did you bring another fork with you? No way can I eat this alone,” Tim asks and Kon nods, looks back at the hoodie, crumpled and forgotten on the bed.

“I’m pretty sure you _could_ eat all of it, but — yeah, I brought another fork. Mostly in case I lost the first one,” Kon admits, awkwardly stabs at the pasta, feels Tim’s look study his face.  

“You really wanted to avoid my Dad at all costs, haven’t you?” Tim raises his eyebrow and Kon looks a touch sheepish, a touch embarrassed, a touch like he’d face Tim’s Dad for Tim any day, anyway and —

“Is it that obvious?” he jokes and Tim snorts, shakes his head and steals another mouthful out of the pot, wonders how exactly Kon plans on leaving his room, later but he doesn’t ask and they are silent, for a minute, for two, and then Tim lowers his fork again, clears his throat.

“Kon?” he asks and Kon turns to him a bit more, bumps his hip into Tim’s, speaks through the food in his mouth; curious, happier.

“Yeah?”

“After we eat all this, can you kiss me again?” Tim asks and at first Kon’s — surprised, for the smallest of fractions of a second, for the shortest moment but it’s not visible under his smile and he grins, wider, happier _again_ and spoiler alert?

 He does.

He kisses Tim, again. 


End file.
